


winter rose

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, First Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 04:53:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9532289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: There is nothing so sweet as impossibility.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Uh... I kind of wrote this three years ago, so I can't exactly vouch for its quality. But at least it's something non-angsty?

  


* * *

 

 

 

She's the second-most beautiful thing Sansa has ever seen.

More beautiful than King's Landing, in all its affected splendor; more beautiful than Queen Cersei, in all her cruel grace. More beautiful than silken southron sun, more beautiful than satin-soft gowns, more beautiful, even, than an endless summer. But not more beautiful than home, and Margaery sees it in her eyes.

"You miss it," she says one day, softly, as they walk the halls of the Red Keep. "You miss it more than anything."

When confronted with a great loss all comforts are quite empty. Words, however loving, cannot fill the space of a person who will never come back. And oh, there were so many--her father, intrepid even in death, her little brothers, burned up by a blazing flame--and her mother and elder brother, butchered at a table like meat, though Sansa had delicately asked Tyrion to tell her no more. 

She had enough nightmares to contend with already.

And now here is Margaery, so beautiful that it is like looking at a bouquet of the finest southron roses, pinks and yellows and reds, beautiful compassion etched into every inch of her foxlike face. She has a sweet budding mouth with a dramatic cupid's bow, cheekbones broad and dramatic as a cat's, the shyest little flash of white, white teeth... and a pair of the darkest eyes Sansa had ever seen, almost like black pools in her rose-pale face, an astonishing and oddly lovely contrast. Each of her movements is careful to the point of being refined; her wrists are delicate and small, and her hands were smooth as they brushed the tears from Sansa's face.

"Love isn't destroying yourself for someone else," she'd whispered to Sansa one evening shortly after her mother's death. "That's not love, sweetling. That's suffering."

And she'd taken both of Sansa's hands in hers, and kissed them.

Now they walk the halls of the Red Keep, Sansa as empty as a shattered vase, Margaery as elegant as any courtly queen. 

"No," Sansa says at last, almost choking on the words, "King's Landing is my home now."

She realizes too late that she hadn't asked Margaery what she'd meant by 'it'. The other girl is too clever by half, and Sansa doesn't know whether she loves or loathes it. 

"But now you will be able to visit Highgarden," says Margaery, sweetly, and Sansa's heart clenches as it never has when gazing at Loras. They are alone now, a rare thing, and Margaery's hand takes hers. Her palms are like doeskin. Living at Highgarden had been Sansa's last chance at happiness, a wonder so brilliant she hadn't been sure if it could ever come true. Now she looks into Margaery's eyes, so dark they look obsidian. They are as warm as a deer's, and as kind, but perhaps not as naive. Her autumn brown curls fall lazily over her slim shoulders; Sansa has never seen anyone so lovely.

"Highgarden will be your occasional refuge, if you wish. Tyrion is a good man; he will not deny you that," says Margaery, and her voice is so gentle and low, almost like a mother's. "But you will see it again one day, Sansa. Winterfell." She glances around to make certain the two of them are alone, and then back to the Stark girl. "And I shall go with you, as your sister."

"How?" Sansa's heart is fluttering in its cage of bones. "How can I believe you, when..."  _Oh, they're all gone, Mother and Father, Bran and Rickon, Robb... it's just Arya and Jon now, and I have so much to say to them, so many things, so many things I never told them. Arya, there are so many things I want to say to you. And so many things that I can't._

"Because I'll make you a promise," says Margaery, and she is smiling now, though what sort of smile it is, Sansa doesn't know. "I'll give you my word.” And then she is leaning in, leaning closer, and there is only enough space for a heartbeat beween them. Sansa blinks once, twice, and then closes her eyes instinctively as she feels the other girl's lips brush up against hers, moth-light.

It is the sweetest shadow of a kiss.

Margaery draws away, her smile real now, the most beautiful blush spreading across her cheeks. She is still close, and giggles a little like a girl into Sansa's ear. "The winter rose," she whispers, "In Winterfell, I'd be the winter rose."

In that instant, to Sansa, it doesn't even matter if it's real. She knows that Margaery will not be here forever; she knows that she has come too early and will leave too soon. Still, she puts her fingers to her lips, feeling the ghost of the kiss there, and knows that just because something is impossible doesn't mean it isn't true.

 

 

 

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End file.
